short story: quiver part two

Henry walks into his apartment and to his dusky room, and crumbles into bed. He pulls the sheets over his head.

Outside the fifth floor one-bedroom apartment, out in the distance past all the other grey apartment buildings, trees stand still, soulless in a small field. They are anaemic.

Henry lies under the covers with his eyes open, pushing the sheets up with long arms to create a small tent. The last hints of light create a white glow in the space, and Henry is brought back to when he was a little boy playing in his cubby. He would hum to himself, fixing the white sheets to pieces of furniture with pegs, and become irritated when a peg flew off and made a sheet drape, letting in too much light. He read picture books and pretended he was in a cave, adventuring through an imaginary world. His mother let him sleep there in his warm cave, and he dreamt of riding on an eagle’s back and waves of colour.

Henry now thinks of his first love. He remembers her brown curls, the tenderness of her pale skin. He still remembers how her skin smelled. His soft seventeen-year-old lips would kiss the nook where her neck met her shoulder and it always smelled the same: sweet and earthy. He used to stay there and breathe her in as she stroked his back. They would giggle and explore under the covers, their breaths fusing. They whispered about never growing up and loving each other forever. They would have if her mother and friends hadn’t told her to grow up. When she finally gave into their demand she lost her youth and left Henry and love behind, and after a few months with an aching chest he decided he was to grow up too.

Now here he is, alone, under his sheets. He kicks off the covers and picks out a black suit for tonight. He runs his lean hands through his brown, dishevelled hair, licks his cracked lips, and heads for the front door.

‘Henry!’ the young woman exclaims across the large, chatter-filled restaurant. Henry watches his date quickly pass her large coat to the gentleman at the door. She is quite attractive. Her legs are long and slender, her loose, light brown curls shine in the restaurant’s wall lighting just like his first love’s hair did at dawn, but her eyes are too wide open, too eager. Henry stands up from his chair, and thinks how her blue cocktail dress and well-done makeup have just gone to waste.

‘Alena, you look lovely,’ Henry says as he pushes in her chair. He tries not to frown once she turns toward the table.

They make pleasantries. How happy Alena is to have this dinner, how successful Henry is at C&G Bank, how the annual report is looking great, how Alena is soon to be promoted, how he’s looking to get a new leather couch in his office.

Henry notices her thin lips now, how her eyes are too far apart. The waiter pours the expensive red wine and her eyes widen even more than before. They toast to success, but Henry secretly toasts to warmth as he waits for Alena to take the first sip of wine before he does so. Alena stares at Henry with affection, and he tries to mimic her expression. She believes it. She briefly strokes Henry’s hand and begins saying how handsome Henry is. Henry doesn’t blush, it’s not a compliment. Good looks don’t make him feel full of worth or bliss; it merely reminds him that his face is now adult, that his childhood is eternally gone. And gone with it tenderness and simplicity.